Next Contestant
by Miss Contrary
Summary: I judge by what she's wearing just how many heads I'm tearing off. [Remy 'follows' Rogue to work. Oneshot.]


**I'm going to me honest with you all right off the bat. Yes, this is a songfic. Interestingly enough, however, it's not like any other one that I've come across so far during my extensive time spent as a lurker here at the Pit. What makes this one unique? The fact that there's more story than lyric. What a novel idea, hmm?**

**Some further honesty – Marvel? Nickleback? I'm a poor student. I don't own anything of yours. Please don't sue. **

**Thank you to Nickleback for writing this song, to my co-worker Kate for getting it stuck in my head, to Marvel for creating some awesome characters to work with, and to you dear reader for actually giving my little twist on this all a shot. Please read and enjoy, and if you have the heart to do so, leave a review. **

**+-+**

_**I judge by what she's wearing**_

_**Just how many heads I'm tearing**_

_**Off the assholes coming on to her**_

_**Each night seems like it's getting worse…**_

The appeal behind the goth look has always been lost on Remy. It makes him think of funerals, and he's been to far too many to appreciate the colour black as a fashion statement. It's a colour for mourning, a colour for somber faces and tears. Black has no place in everyday wardrobes.

He has issues with the makeup too. Thick eyeliner and heavy eye shadow are just excuses to be able to say "leave me alone" and "look at me" at the same time. He thinks it's tacky and overdone. Halloween comes but once a year, or so his calendar says, and he figures that sort of get-up should stay there.

For her he makes an exception.

He often wonders why this is so; why it's okay for her to wear what he would find unattractive and perhaps even reprehensible on anyone else. Why she gets away with the black clothes and the overdone cosmetics when no-one else would.

Somehow, it works on her.

Somehow, he doesn't mind.

As long as it's her.

Tonight she's wearing a daringly short miniskirt that practically has "come hither" embroidered in to its scandalously high hem. Striped stockings that make him think of the Wicked Witch of the East hide the skin of her legs all the way up to mid thigh. This cover-up isn't necessary, not anymore, and the small bracelet on her left wrist is the reason. It looks like a thick silver bangle, but is really a power negator, designed and built by Forge. She doesn't need to dress for her powers anymore, but he recognizes that covering up is a hard habit to break. She also happens to like the stockings, so she wears them, the material hiding her bare flesh from the world as though she still has to worry about it. He finds himself almost thankful for this, though he's not really sure of the reasons why. He's not even really sure he would want to face them even if he knew.

A tank top - she's grown to love them over the past while - leaves the skin of her arms free to breathe, to touch and be touched. That, he's not so comfortable with. What exactly could he do about it though? It isn't as though she'd listen to him were he to say something. If he were to say something. He'd be lying if he said he didn't appreciate what the tops did for her figure. He's unsure as of yet whether the pros outweigh the cons, but right now it seems that he has more important things to see to. Like her.

The whole outfit is finished off with a pair of beat up size nine Doc Martens that she's had for seemingly forever. She glances towards the mirror in her room and gives herself a satisfied little nod before heading for the door.

He lets out a sigh as he watches her leave.

It looks like he'll be busy tonight.

_**And I wish she'd take the night off**_

_**So I don't have to fight off**_

**_Every asshole coming on to her_**

_**It happens every night she works**_

"You're breakin' my heart, Rogue." He murmurs as she leaves the mansion. He watches as she gets in to her little black convertible (a birthday present from the Wolverine once she'd turned twenty) and drives off in to the dark of night. He knows where she's going, of course.

Work.

It had been the Professor's idea that she get a job. Remy's certain that Xavier had something more mainstream in mind when he suggested it than what Rogue eventually came up with.

In all honesty, so did he.

Serving drinks at a local club certainly wasn't something he had ever pictured her doing, but she had chosen it for herself and he didn't, doesn't, and won't grudge her that. She's an adult now, just shy of her twenty-fourth birthday. She's fully capable of making decisions for herself.

Still, he reflects, it would have been nicer if she had chosen a more reputable place to work. "Las Noches", it's called. He knew the place well enough before she became an employee, and made it his business to know it more intimately once she was. The wandering hands there are enough to make him certifiably insane. He has ways of dealing with it though, and it's through those methods he manages to salvage at least some of his sanity.

Once a few moments had passed, he begins to follow her. He doesn't know if she knows he does this every night she's on shift (he likes to think she doesn't), but she has yet to say anything about it and he has no intentions of stopping any time soon.

_**They'll go and ask the DJ**_

_**To find out just what would she say**_

_**If they all tried coming on to her**_

_**Don't they know it's never going to work?**_

He arrives at the club after a ten minute drive. He'd have preferred to come by bike, but his Harley is a little too obvious for this particular operation. A dark sedan acquired by perfectly legal means (his father would be shocked and appalled) serves his purposes just fine tonight. It's more because of its more inconspicuous nature, really. The fact that she's never seen this particular vehicle is just a perk.

He parks out front and stands in line with the rest of the desperate horde looking to get in. The line shuffles on, and he finally makes it past the velvet rope. His entrance is low-key; there's no sense in attracting any attention, despite how loudly his exhibitionist tendencies are screaming otherwise. Once inside he hides in the back corner, a spot from which he has a clear view of the bar at all times. She's there, of course, just coming through the back. She exchanges some words and a laugh with the other girl there that are lost in the din of the music, but he can read lips well enough to know what's being said.

_Hey Rogue! You got here just in time. It's nuts tonight._

_Well, Adam's DJing. I'm not really surprised._

Rogue sets to pulling a few more glasses out of the cabinet behind her as her companion scans the club while handing off something orange and fizzy to a waiting customer. Her gaze pauses for a moment, and she elbows Rogue with a broad grin on her face.

_That guy's totally checking you out, Rogue._

_Which one?_

_The brunette talking to Adam._

Rogue looks over towards the DJ, and so does he. A stocky guy is yelling something in Adam's ear, leering and pointing towards the bar. Well, maybe not really leering. That could be his imagination.

_The chick with the stripes...you know her at all?_

Adam shrugs distractedly, focused more on the turntables before him than the guy beside him.

_Well enough, I guess._

_Think she'd let me buy her a drink?_

There's a slight smirk on Adam's part that's obviously missed by his interrogator.

_You're welcome to try._

Already feeling his blood boil, Remy shifts his gaze back to the bar where Rogue has moved on to mixing some sort of cocktail that looks sweet enough to send someone in to pancreatic shock. She appears to have forgotten all about her brunette admirer, and that's certainly for the best. Someone pushing through the crowd catches his notice - it's the brunette. He's headed right for the bar, face marked with determination and a lecherous smile. . . and this time, he's certain it's not his imagination. He cracks his knuckles while watching the brunette approach the bar. It appears that it's time for him to start working as well.

_**They think they'll get inside her**_

_**With every drink they buy her**_

_**As they all try coming on to her**_

_**This time somebody's getting hurt**_

The brunette changes the way he moves once he's within seven feet of the bar itself. A (misplaced) confidence surrounds him, and all of a sudden he's standing taller and that smile has grown even more disgusting than it was merely seconds ago. It takes every ounce of Remy's willpower not to grab the idiot right now and drag him out back to be dealt with. He will wait though. If he has learned anything over his lifetime, it's patience. Self-control is another matter all together. A slight smile touches the corners of his mouth at this thought, but the reflection is quickly banished as the brunette steps up to the bar. He can feel his jaw tighten as Rogue notices the guys standing there and goes to see what he wants. She leans over the counter and flashes him a winning smile that he kind of wishes were for him.

_What can I get you, sugar?_

If it's possible for his jaw to clench even further, it does at the usage of the endearment. She never uses it back at the mansion, only here at the club. He knows that it's supposed to make the guys feel special. The truth, however, is that "sugar" translates roughly to "you don't stand a snowball's chance in hell".

It's then he remembers that she's never, ever called him sugar, and he proceeds to cling to that fact more tightly than he would his wallet, which is saying something.

The brunette leans over the counter too, a hand brushing against Rogue's forearm while he replies. Remy can feel his stomach turning, and his fingers itch to grab the guy and teach him a lesson for having he audacity to lay a hand on her. Patience though, a quiet voice at the back of his mind whispers. Patience.

_What here's sweet as you?_

If the guy didn't deserve to be throttled before, that line alone is worth a slow, painful death. Rogue laughs coldly at the poor excuse for a pick-up line, and thus, Remy is placated. For now.

_I'm not sweet at all, trust me. _

_Well, then what are you?_

_More than you can handle. _

The brunette grins before fishing in to his pocket and pulling out a handful of crumpled dollar bills.

_Mind if I treat you to something?_

Rogue shakes her head, smile still in place.

_Sorry, not while I'm working._

_When do you get off?_

_Past your bedtime._

She turns to go deal with someone else when the brunette reaches out and grabs at her wrist. Bad idea. Very, very bad idea. No-one touches Rogue without her permission.

_Come ON. Work with me here, will you?_

Rogue's face hardens as she wrenches her hand away from him.

_What. Do. You. Want._

Remy can tell by the way her mouth moves that her tone has grown dangerous. She's over enunciating, biting off each 't' and carefully separating each word. The brunette seems not to notice.

_I'd settle for some scotch and your number._

If her face had been hardening before, it's steeling now. Her eyes narrow violently, and she looks as though she's ready to hurt the guy badly. She does, however, know better than to do anything stupid.

_I'm gonna have to disappoint you on both counts. I don't serve jerks, and I don't hand out my number to guys who can't take a hint. Now move along, or I'm going to call one of the bouncers. _

Good girl, Remy thinks. Way to put the trash in its place. She turns her attention elsewhere and the brunette is left drinkless, numberless and scowling, not to mention humiliated. It's the last of these that Remy finds most satisfying. Bastard got what was coming to him, talking to Rogue like that.

_**I'm hating what she's wearing**_

_**Everybody here keeps staring**_

_**Can't wait 'till they get what they deserve**_

_**This time somebody's gettin' hurt**_

As the brunette disappears in to the crowd, Remy's suddenly feeling a lot less charitable towards the clothes that Rogue's chosen for tonight. Well, that may not be quite right. The stockings still flatter those legs that look as if they've been chiseled from stone. The skirt emphasizes hips that have gone from invisible to awkward to stunning all in a few short years. The tank top clings to a silhouette that one would have to be dead not to appreciate. Hell, even the Doc Martens, beat up as they are, make her Achilles tendons look _good_. These reflections calm him slightly, and he takes a moment to recall the scrawny eighteen-year-old with a chip on her shoulder that he met about six years ago in a shipping yard, and to admire the piece of art before him that's been twenty-four years in the making. It's a pleasant moment.

It's as he replays Rogue's encounter with the brunette over and over in his head that he comes to the actual truth -- it's not the clothes that are unappealing, but the reaction they're getting. The way that guy had looked at Rogue as though she were some piece of meat to be taken home and barbequed, that self-satisfied grin as he brushed his hand along her arm as though he knew she liked it, the way he thought she wouldn't notice his gaze constantly flirting with her neckline . . . whatever calm he'd managed to cultivate disappears almost instantly, and he catches himself cracking his knuckles yet again as a cool fury burns in his chest and the itch to DO something rises.

While popping the knuckles of his left hand, a gut feeling has Remy throw a passing glance towards the door of the club – the brunette is leaving, and there's a perverse sort of satisfaction that he derives from that. An opportunity, an excuse, and an outlet all in one. It's just what he wants right now, exactly what he needs. It really doesn't get much better than that. Remy whistles to himself as he starts to follow the guy.

It's time to go to work.

_**Here comes the next contestant  
Is that your hand on my girlfriend?  
Is that your hand?  
I wish you'd do it again (I'll watch you leave here limping)  
And I wish you'd do it again (I'll watch you leave here limping)  
And I wish you'd do it again (each night seems like it's getting worse)  
And I wish you'd do it again (this time somebody's gettin' hurt)  
**_

It's midnight, and it's near pitch black outside. Not that either of these bother him or anything – he was raised in the dark. Just as fish thrive in water and birds in air, he flourishes amidst shadows. It's not a boast, it's a simple truth, and that he's in his home element right now strikes him as being rather appropriate for his purposes. He doubts he could have planned this better himself.

The brunette from the club is wandering through the parking lot, muttering in a low voice about the prude of a bartender back in the club. His language is much more colourful than that though, going in to detail about just how irritated he is and the sort of things he'd like to do to that girl if he got the chance, and if Remy has any qualms about what he's about to do, they're gone now.

The guy is searching for his car, and apparently having no luck. Remy finally emerges from the shadows and makes his approach. The brunette doesn't even notice him, even when he's standing right next to him.

_And that, boys and girls, _Remy congratulates himself, _is what we call pure skill. _

"'S'cuse me, but was that you with your paws all over the bartender a few minutes ago?"

The brunette jumps, startled, and turns to face the voice. A few distinct emotions cross his face before he replies – shock, fear, distrust, all in that order. There's a nagging sense of disappointment that fear is not the last of these, but Remy quickly brushes it aside.

When the brunette speaks, his voice is harsh, bordering on accusatory without any real reason.

"Who's asking?"

Remy's expression goes stony as his voice freezes over.

"Me. Now answer the question."

This approach seems to strike the right cord, as the brunette shifts unconsciously in to a defensive posture.

"So what if I am?" He tries for what Remy guesses is supposed to be a bravado-tinged smirk. It reeks of desperation. "It's not like it got me anywhere."

"I don't take kindly to people who mistreat Rogue."

The brunette takes a couple steps back, and it's likely he doesn't even know he's doing so.

"What, she your girlfriend or something?"

There's fear in his tone, and that's good. Combined with that specific question, it's cause for a broad smile to spread across Remy's features.

"Or something."

**_There goes the next contestant…_**

Remy enters the mansion's kitchen the next morning to see Rogue perched upon the counter with a large mug of coffee and a newspaper. He can't help but notice that she's wearing a pair of his sweatpants that had disappeared last laundry day. _Huh_, he thinks with a grin. _So that's where they went._

She's engrossed in whatever article she's reading, taking the occasional sip of the hot, dark beverage she holds in her hand. He's not usually one for caffeine, always having disliked the idea of dependency.

_And what do you call this? _He asks himself, eyes settled squarely upon Rogue. No answer comes (which is for the best – he doesn't really want one), and he goes ahead and pours himself a cup anyways, justifying it by telling himself that he deserves it, that he needs it after last night's . . . diversions.

It's only once he's set the coffee pot down that Rogue's eyes flit up from the newspaper and towards him.

"You should read this." She says, gesturing with her chin towards whatever she'd been reading.

"More anti-mutant propaganda?" His voice is touched with more than a little cynicism. He can hardly be blamed though, what with the turn the world has been taking ever since the new president expressed an interest in further researching the benefits of a MRP – Mutant Registration Program.  
"Nope. There was another beating outside the club last night."

"Really?" He doesn't even have to draw on the experience that years upon years of untruths have granted him to sound interested. Call it morbid curiosity, call it narcissism, call it lunacy; he really wants to see what the paper has to say. He crosses the floor and peers over her shoulder. She indicates the article, and he skims it while drinking deeply of his coffee.

The gist is this: Male, 25, found severely injured outside the club "Las Noches" by a staff member on a smoke break. Dislocated shoulder, broken leg, concussion. No witnesses.

It's difficult for Remy to repress a smile, even though they forgot the part where the jerk's car gets keyed to hell.

"Poor guy." Rogue murmurs. He feels her eyes upon him as she says this.

"Yeah. Real pity. That's the fifth one this month, isn't it?" He sounds almost genuine enough to convince himself.

"Sixth."

The sigh he then releases is a carefully contrived emotional response to hearing of a fellow human being's suffering.

"I still don't know why you work there, Rogue. It's just not safe. I mean, they obviously let any kind of trash in."

She raises an eyebrow as a small smile crosses her face.

"Don't I know it."

-Fin-


End file.
